


Eighth Notes and Rests

by nyxocity



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angel Dean Winchester, Apocalypse, Declarations Of Love, Epic Love, Inspired by Poetry, Lucifer Possessing Sam Winchester, M/M, Poetry, Sibling Incest, Switching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-24
Updated: 2014-07-24
Packaged: 2018-02-10 05:46:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 4,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2013330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nyxocity/pseuds/nyxocity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam and Dean embrace their separate destinies together. </p><p>Written prior to S5 (still working on transferring all my older LJ stories over here), set in a theoretical S5. Told in eight parts, each part inspired by one of the eight poems that make up the dramatic dialogue between God and Lucifer in 'Brothers' by Lucille Clifton, and spanning some intimate moments from my own take on season 5. An exercise in poetic style.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. invitation

_come coil with me_  
 _here in creation’s bed_  
 _among the twigs and ribbons_  
 _of the past. i have grown old_  
 _remembering the garden,_  
 _the hum of the great cats_  
 _moving into language, the sweet_  
 _fume of the man’s rib_  
 _as it rose up and began to walk._  
 _it was all glory then,_  
 _the winged creatures leaping_  
 _like angels, the oceans claiming_  
 _their own. let us rest here a time_  
 _like two old brothers_  
 _who watched it happen and wondered_  
 _what it meant._

_~ 'Brothers' by Lucille Clifton_

 

Lying here, bodies twined together beneath the arbor of oaks, the face of the moon looks the same as it ever did. The pale, ethereal shine scatters across them through the space between leaves, patches of shadow chasing over the canvas of Dean’s skin. Brother’s warmth tangled in his arms, eye to eye and blood to blood, salt of mingled sweat shared between their lips, bodies joined hip and chest, belly and mouth, same moon above they’ve lain beneath all their lives rising constant and eternal.

It's everything down here that has changed. Sam can feel it, turn of a wheel beneath his skin, ceaseless and creaking, darkness carried within circumference. The taint of demon's blood still runs like an undercurrent in his veins, thick, black silt that rides the bottom of tides, bleached shells like bones hidden beneath its oily slide.

There will be time to reflect later, time to look back on what happened today and wonder what it all means.

Sleek muscle and warm hands, fingers twining and fisting together as they move like two halves of the same whole. Dean arches beneath him, spine crackling, mouth hungry, utterly alive as Sam takes and gives, everything between them spoken through skin, reassurance in the press of fingerprints, the rhythmic rocking of their hips. So long since they've done this, distance between them that Sam couldn't stop anymore than he could understand. Dean needs this as badly as he does, writhing in the grass, body gripping Sam tight, mouth writing his name across Sam's skin and reclaiming him.

"Won't leave you again," Sam promises, words deep and low, eyes fixed on the bright green points of his brother's.

"Damned right," Dean growls, body rising as he kisses Sam's mouth.

Sam watches his brother's face as he makes Dean come apart, shivering and breathless, every muscle knotted and frozen, mouth reddened with kisses panting out Sam's name. Sam follows right behind, sight and feel of Dean all around him, coming undone sending him over the edge, and he buries his face in Dean's shoulder, presses his forehead against the soft, wet ground, mouthing Dean's shoulder, wanting to feel him even closer, deeper than this.

The sweat is cooling on their bodies, night breeze rustling the leaves, look in Dean's eyes like he isn't sure how they ended here. He doesn't move, though, and neither does Sam, sinking into the feel of Dean's body, muscle and bone melting together.

Dean in his arms, moon in the sky, and this is a reprieve; a moment's rest before the true battle begins. Dean breathes into him, arms tightening around Sam's back, and for the first time in almost a year, Sam feels like they're brothers again.


	2. how great Thou art

_listen. You are beyond_  
 _even Your own understanding._  
 _that rib and rain and clay_  
 _in all its pride,_  
 _its unsteady dominion,_  
 _is not what you believed_  
 _You were,_  
 _but it is what You are;_ _in your own image as some_  
 _lexicographer supposed._  
 _the face, both he and she,_  
 _the odd ambition, the desire_  
 _to reach beyond the stars_  
 _is You. All You, all You_  
 _the loneliness, the perfect_  
 _imperfection._

_~Brothers, by Lucille Clifton_

 

When the battle is over, bodies lie dead on the warehouse floor, counting down six, five, four, and all Sam knows is that it isn't them. All he can hear is the sound of his own breathing, quick, heavy panting like a steam engine.

"How?" Dean's eyes are wide, clear green, disbelief etched into their depths. "You... you shouldn't be able to do that anymore."

The demons are dead, their essences scorched, reduced to ash floating on the air. He and Dean are still alive, hearts beating messy and hard. That should be all that matters.

Sam thinks of the thrumming of his heart, blood pounding in his temples, the fluttering wings in his stomach. Remembers the certainty of his mortality, terror singing in his veins, the way it filled and suffused him like quicksand, threatening to pull him under. Fluid moment like dancing inside his mind, hand rising like gliding through water, and he'd pulled them apart, tatters of black smoke and fading screams.

"Ruby said I had the feather all along."

He's not completely human anymore, maybe he never was. Maybe he's always been this; an instrument, a conduit empty and waiting to be filled. Maybe he spent his life with spirit, body and mind lashed down by sheer will, locked inside himself so tightly because he knew somehow, what he was capable of. No coppery taste of demon blood against his tongue, no scapegoat or martyr. Just his own hands that have left these indelible, invisible fingerprints behind on cooling skin.

"We should be dead," Dean whispers.

"I know. That's why we aren't."

He can feel the question poised on the tip of Dean's tongue, read the language implicit in the slightest shift of Dean's shoulders. He can sense Dean's fear, the guilt Dean feels over his own doubt. It's there in the touch of hesitation of Dean's hand, the harsh, desperate collision of mouths as Dean shoves everything away and tries to believe. He kisses Sam like trying to push faith into him, like he needs Sam to believe it so that he can too, tries to force it into Sam with rough hands and broad swipes of tongue.

Spine pressed to the wood slatted wall and he welcomes it, spreads his thighs and takes Dean deep, each stroke and thrust tethering him to his skin. Sweet burning sting and he relishes the pain, tries to let it quantify him, make him real.

He's not completely human anymore and he's not completely demon. Made of light and shadow, strange creature caught between both worlds, not truly part of either, but something else all together.

He holds on to Dean and lets his brother try to take away the truth.


	3. as for myself

_less snake than angel_  
 _less angel than man_  
 _how come i to this_  
 _serpent’s understanding?_  
 _watching creation from_  
 _a hood of leaves_  
 _i have foreseen the evening_  
 _of the world._  
 _as she as she_  
 _the breast of Yourself_  
 _separated out and made to bear,_  
 _as sure as her returning,_  
 _i too am blessed with_  
 _the one gift You cherish;_  
 _to feel the living move in m_ e  
 _and to be unafraid._

_~Brothers, by Lucille Clifton_

Lucifer moves on delicate legs with the cadence of her step, golden hair spilling in waves to the curve of her breasts, their rise and fall telling the draw of her breath. He smiles with Jess’s pink mouth and perfect white teeth, speaks in the rich tones of her sweet voice. 

“Sam.” 

“Don’t wear her face.” Sam can feel the power coil inside him, dark and heavy as a serpent, reptilian slide of scales as it curls and slithers, rising to the surface, forked tongue tasting the air. 

“Why not?” So smooth, so congenial, as calm as if they were discussing the chill of this fall evening. “She was your ticket out of this life, wasn’t she? As perfect as if you created her yourself from thin air.” Fingertips reaching for his face, tiny feet moving closer and Sam rears back, eyes narrowing to slits. 

Jess’ eyes fill with understanding, hand wilting and falling away, disappointment curving her mouth. Sam knows it isn’t her, just her form stretched across the framework of something vile, but it hurts, vibrates through him like a memory quake, shaking loose things long buried and half-forgotten. 

“She never knew.” Jess’s voice is softer now, the way she sounded when she was sleepy, worn out. “Died in your name, never knowing. But she didn’t fill the emptiness inside you, never could. Not like Dean does.” 

The words strike him like blow, guilt heavy in his limbs, arrow through his still beating heart. “Leave her out of this.” Cheeks stained red, limbs trembling with power and rage. 

Lucifer’s face runs like melted wax, shape smoothing, changing, body broadening, growing taller, Dean’s haunted eyes staring out from his brother’s weary face. Feet crossing each other, careful step taken backward, chin rising, armor closing around his heart. 

But even he’s never been enough. You’ve always known what you are, Sam. Deep down inside, you’ve always felt it, ever since you were a child. It’s why you hated this life, why you ran from it, why you vowed you’d never return to it. You wanted to leave behind the shadow, as if it were something this life stained you with. But it’s always been part of you.” 

“I know that.” Swallow against the harsh knowledge that’s slowly made its way into his blood and bones, down deep into his soul. He draws on the pain like a weapon, holds it up for Lucifer to gaze upon. “You can’t use that against me. No one can. Not anymore. 

“Ah,” Dean smiles chillingly. “So you’ve accepted your place? I wonder if Dean will be so accommodating.” His brother’s voice, so politely and falsely considerate. “You’ve never been able to shake it, the way you’ve always needed him. The feel of him against you, skin inside and out, his roots buried in your heart like a tree, sunk so ancient and completely that you can’t dig him out.” Lucifer nods with Dean’s face, twitch in the line of his jaw so like Dean’s that it gives Sam pause. “God might call it sacrilege… but I had a brother once, too. I felt for him as you do for Dean.” Dean’s eyes tighten, narrowing, coldness in them Sam barely recognizes, heart sent skittering into a heavier rhythm. “God and Gabriel took him from me first, and then Dean took him forever.” 

“Azazel?” Word whispered from numb, shocked lips. 

Cold, cruel smile like a rime of frost smeared across a window pane. “Dean is destined to try to stop me. He must come to me and try. And then I will take your brother from you.” 

“I’ll kill you first.” Snarl like an animal’s rage, furious teeth of crackling power rising through him and filling his bones, shooting from his hands like lightning. 

The charge hits empty air, explodes in a flash of brilliant white and collapses inward into nothingness. Lucifer is gone as simply as if he’d never been. 

“That is not your destiny, Sam.” His brother’s voice drifting faint in the air, mocking laughter fluttering around him like bat wings as it fades. 

He needs to lay his hands upon his brother’s skin, feel Dean inside of him, all around him, warm and alive. 

For the first time, Sam no longer cares about his own destiny. 


	4. in my own defense

_what could I choose_  
 _but to slide along behind them,_  
 _they whose only sin_  
 _was being their father’s children?_  
 _as they stood with their backs_  
 _to the garden,_  
 _a new and terrible luster_  
 _burning their eyes,_  
 _only You could have called_  
 _their ineffable names,_  
 _only in their fever_  
 _could they have failed to hear._

_~Brothers, by Lucille Clifton_

 

The angels who have abandoned God’s army are beautiful in their fall from grace, like shooting stars that fall from the skies, their glittering essence spread across the landscape of the earth and consumed by its gravity.

Terrible understanding in their eyes, haunted and hollow, locked inside these bodies they now wear like a punishment. In abandoning a heaven devoid of God’s presence, they too have been abandoned. Sam wonders if they’d expected God to save them, stop them, reach out his omnipotent hands and catch them, draw them back from the sky. Sam’s understanding is equaled only by his surprise that they’d still held hope, his surprise that he had, too.

Heaven is empty, God is empty, and so they come, one by one, seeking the one fated to slay their enemy, the name Dean Winchester on their lips and in their hearts like a bright promise.

One by one, Dean turns them away, bent beneath the cross on his shoulders, its weight entrenched deep in his bones. 

It’s Dean they come for, but it’s Sam who understands. The longing in them as they look upon Dean, his vision like home reflected in their eyes, their souls no longer part of heaven, something more than human, seeking purpose, identity. Sam feels their presence as they move across the world, faint sting of nettles beneath his skin, as drawn to them as he is repelled, demon inside him as uneasy as his heavy heart, pulled to them like the tide. Sam is as they are; all of them trapped between worlds, homeless, wandering and lost… and they all look to Dean to guide them.

Dean smiles and speaks less, lines around his eyes drawn tight, mouth settled into a straight, firm line.

His brother has never felt worthy, never known the certainty of anything except his love for Sam and his hatred of monsters. It’s this, Sam knows, that is Dean’s true weakness. It’s this that Lucifer will use, build upon and grow like a garden to fruition, Dean’s own doubt in his strength that will be his undoing. Lucifer will reap the fruits of his labor, and laugh, Dean’s blood staining his hands, world unspun and forever undone.

“You have to lead them,” Sam whispers, moving deep inside his brother's body, gentle strokes sliding smooth, bodies fused, locked together as one in slowly rippling, eternal rhythm. “Lead us.”

“Sam?” Dean’s heart pounds behind the cage of his ribs, and Sam can almost feel the fear prickling beneath Dean’s skin, scouring his veins. 

Sam smoothes it away with his hands, soothing flow over canvas made of skin and muscle, each dip and curve tasted and known to him. “The lost children of heaven and hell. We need you, Dean.” Soft kiss lain against his brother’s lips, every nerve and muscle and movement a plea. “Need you to bring us together, give us purpose.” 

“No, Sam. I can’t. Won’t.” Dean is shaking his head, twisting beneath Sam, and Sam stills inside him, lets his brother see the truth written in his face.

He doesn't want to ask Dean for this, wouldn't if he had any other choice. “God is gone, Dean. You’re all we have left. We need to fight Lucifer, fight with you. Fight for you.”

Dean’s struggles cease, those bright green eyes meeting Sam’s in the dim lamplight of the motel room. There’s sadness in them, a doubt Sam wants to erase that sinks soul deep, chain of links passed down through years from heart to soul.

“No.”

“Yes.” Sam eases the burn of the word with another kiss. “You’re the only hope left. I know you don’t want it… I know it scares you, but that’s just the way it is.” Slow, gentle thrust, breath given to the lush curve of Dean’s mouth. “Let us help you, let us protect you.” His brother beneath him, not a bit fragile or frail, stronger than even he knows. “Let them worship you like I do.” 

Doubt and recrimination in those eyes, and Sam digs down inside, pulls out the core of his own strength, utter faith and love shaped in his brother’s image, holds it up in his eyes for Dean to see, breath stuttering as the words catch, hitching in his chest. “Please, Dean.” Rocking curve of his hips against his brother's, as deep inside as he wants the truth to be. “I can’t watch you die again.”

Skid of a rough palm against Sam’s cheek, touching and holding for a moment, his brother’s face set grim with understanding.

“You won’t.”

When Dean finally calls, they come together, disjointed alliance of fractured creatures aligning slowly, merging into a greater whole, less an army than the face of hope itself. 

And inside Dean, something new takes root and begins to grow.


	5. the road led from delight

_into delight. into the sharp_   
_edge of seasons, into the sweet_   
_puff of bread baking, the warm_   
_vale of sheet and sweat after love,_   
_the tinny newborn cry of calf_   
_and cormorant and humankind._   
_and pain, of course,_   
_always there was some bleeding,_   
_but forbid me not_   
_my meditation on the outer world_   
_before the rest of it, before_   
_the bruising of his heel, my head,_   
_and so forth._

_~Brothers, by Lucille Clifton_

 

The apocalypse is happening--has been happening since the day Lucifer set foot on earth. It’s not a catastrophic event; it’s not the collapsing of skies, or the fall of blood like rain, boiling oceans or quaking lands. It is instead a slow erosion, a darkness tainting the earth, slowly creeping in on moments across the threshold of every soul upon it.

They do not march onto battlefields; these angels made flesh, this demon hybrid and the human that leads them all. They fight in the wide open spaces lost between glittering cities and small towns, in the abandoned, forgotten places at the edges of humanity’s awareness. Burned wood and the wreckage of old buildings, empty fields bearing black scars left behind to mark their passing. Their victories are small but many, tide chasing at the vast expanse of a sandy shore, stealing away tiny grains.

In time, the pure angels who served Zachariah come to join them, those that still hold faith in God alongside those who have abandoned their Father forever; strange, patchwork quilt of mismatched pieces stitched together and held by a single thread of hope. 

Never as alive as they are now, staring death in the face, insurmountable odds delayed by time slowly running out. Everything becomes precious, moments and sights tucked away like treasures that may never be held again. Final battle drawing nearer, the call of Lucifer to his legions, demons gathering at his feet, ranks breaking into neat rows and lines, and they finally march to face it.

They camp nestled among the trees at the foot of Rockies, so far from the rest of the world that Sam feels he can barely remember it. There is solace here in the calm before the storm, the hush of expectancy, the thrill of anticipation. There is still beauty in this world, in the sharing of a meal, the breaking of bread, in the smallest kindness they show each other, in the reverent eyes bestowed upon his brother. Here in the tall pines that shelter them, upon their bed of prickly needles, the night sky twinkling with stars glimpsed between their boughs. Here, in the taste and touch of his brother, the strength and purity of his heart. So much left in this world still worth saving, so much still worth having.

And there’s this, what they share between them; the way Dean moves inside Sam, no words exchanged, silent understanding, unspoken love. It isn’t goodbye and it isn’t certainty that they’ll survive, it’s just this; two souls entangled and entwined so closely that they will always be bound together, through life, death and beyond. Limbs warm and suffused with satisfaction, they lie where they fall, Dean’s cheek pressed to his as his brother drifts. Everything exactly as it should be, exactly as it’s always been.

And still, he feels the restless pull of the demon, its hunger never quite sated; ceaseless sinuous whispering that tells Sam his destiny is not here at his brother’s side. He closes his eyes, burrows into his brother’s sleeping embrace and breathes in his scent, lets it soothe away the doubts and darkness for a few moments more.

He holds Dean closer, feels the beat of his heart, the rise and fall of his breath and tries to memorize the moment, the feel of him, the curl of his lashes against his cheek, relaxed and reposed, peace found in sleep. Let him have this at least, before the rest of it.

“Love you, Dean.” Words barely spoken, unnecessary declaration that falls upon sleeping ears, as much apology as anything else. Sam hopes it will sink down into his brother’s dreams, that Dean will hear him, understand all the other words he can’t say, the sadness and regret for the knowledge in his heart.

The campfire is guttering low, moon high and pale, flat disc hung at the top of the sky when Sam’s eyes flutter open.

From the other side of the mountains, Lucifer calls. Inside Sam, something stirs… and answers.


	6. the silence of God is God

_tell me, tell us why_   
_in the confusion of a mountain_   
_of babies stacked like cordwood,_   
_of limbs walking away from each other,_   
_of tongues bitten through_   
_by the language of assault,_   
_tell me, tell us why_   
_You neither raised your hand_   
_Nor turned away, tell us why_   
_You watched the excommunication of_   
_That world and You said nothing._

_~Brothers, by Lucille Clifton_

 

A man stands at the edge of a rocky outcropping; a tall, lonely figure cut against the slate gray sky. He could look regal, imperial upon so high a perch, but instead he appears ragged and torn, features smeared at the edges as if drawn by the hands of a clumsy child. Clouds of black smoke roil below him, wispy streams billowing up to catch in the wind, burning fires that cannot cover the stench of blood and death.

Sam stands upon the scorched earth, legs and arms straight lines thrumming with tension, chin tilted skyward, hands closed into fists. Power gnashes hungry teeth within his breast, coiled close against the inside of his skin. Furious, righteous anger, so hot it burns cold; for the bodies around him, for the creature that stands above him. For the truth even he can no longer deny.

Sam cannot save them, not a single one, not even his own brother, not even with all the power at his call. 

You know the final destiny of the Antichrist. Search your heart, Sam.

He knows. Lucifer needs the power of Sam's flesh to complete his plans, needs flesh, too, to be slain. Sam knows and yet he waits, desperate hope still threading through him, tiny strings slowly slipping away through resigned fingers.

Even here, in the eleventh hour, God does not deign to show his face.

The fallen angels are right. God is dead. This is His funeral; forgotten dream of a being scattered to cinders, dissolving to ash. 

Hands clenched so tight they call forth blood in the shape of crescent moons, slow, steady drip, fresh splash of crimson against the blood-soaked dirt. 

God has forsaken them, but Sam will not.

He does not send up a last prayer that Dean will understand--knows it would go unheard.

He spreads his arms and calls his destiny home.


	7. still there is mercy, there is grace

_how otherwise_   
_could I have come to this_   
_marble spinning in space_   
_propelled by the great_   
_thumb of the universe?_   
_how otherwise_   
_could the two roads_   
_of this tongue_   
_converge into a single_   
_certitude?_   
_how otherwise_   
_could I, a sleek old_   
_traveler,_   
_curl one day safe and still_   
_beside YOU_   
_at Your feet, perhaps,_   
_but, amen, Yours._

_~Brothers, by Lucille Clifton_

 

Thoughts sent tumbling like dead, dry leaves scattering, and even the symbol inked into his chest cannot deny so open an invitation. Lucifer enters him, spilling through him with the knowledge of eons, a creature who has known the grace of God, the love and the retribution. 

There is symmetry here, the two divergent paths he has walked upon for so long converging together at last; human and demon merging, light of an angel binding them as one. The truth comes to Sam then, emerging knowledge that rises like laughter bubbling in his chest. Light and darkness blending together on the hinge of human flesh, symbiotic and dependent—they would be nothing without Sam to give them succor, to provide them house and home.

It all comes together then, like the universe pulled through the eye of a needle and drawn tight; truth laid suddenly bare. Moment drawing upon moment, each unremarkable in their own right, laid and layered upon each other, given greater meaning as a whole, all building to this very instant. He understands now, his lineage, his history, his tainted birthright; human and demon fused by the essence of an angel into the shape of something new and stronger.

This is what he was always meant to be. 

It is Lucifer who gazes through Sam’s eyes, who watches angels and demons fight small and faraway, the cut of their blades and the spill of their blood irrelevant. All of them, all of this, only meant to build to this moment.

It is Lucifer who sees Dean below, pale face as beautiful as any angel’s, skin smeared crimson with blood and black with ash, eyes held wide and green and fixed upon them. It is Lucifer who sees the sadness in Sam’s brother, but it is Sam who sees the love… and the resignation. Whatever foothold Lucifer hoped to gain has long since flown, dark bird disappearing into the horizon. Sam’s pride is like pain, distant ache for all they have both given and lost, and they both of them long ago faced this fear.

Dean and all his angels below them, and there is nothing of weakness here, no quarter in his brother’s eyes. 

It is from Dean’s lips that the call comes, words spoken in a bare whisper that says everything Sam needs to hear; love, regret, and finality.

The face of Michael’s host is reposed and almost gentle as he answers; smoothness of feature like marble, hair long and flowing blond, one hand held out from his side, palm open as something begins to take shape. Long, human fingers settle around a metal pommel, liquid metal rising in defiance of gravity, sharp point star-capped by light as it solidifies. Fire leaps and licks along the edges of the sharp blade, white to gold, tinted green-blue at the flickering tips.

“You will not kill your own brother.” Lucifer’s rage is a palpable thing, words howled, hurled upon Dean like vicious rain. 

“Right behind you, Sammy.” Dean’s mouth twists with a gritty smile, the look in his eyes falling through Lucifer and into Sam. It’s all right there, everything that’s always been between them, gossamer cord spanning the space between them, tying them together, unbreakable and intractable. 

Michael’s sword rises against the darkening sky, glowing impossibly bright, fire and truth in the arc of his swing.

_at that time shall Michael rise up, the great prince, who standeth for the children of thy people: and a time shall come, such as never was from the time that nations began, even until that time. And at that time shall thy people be saved_

Sam feels his body inhale, exhale, moment suspended in time.

_Love you, Dean._

As it was written, so it shall be.


	8. …is God.

_so._   
_having no need to speak_   
_You sent Your tongue_   
_splintered into angels._   
_even i,_   
_with my little piece of it_   
_have said too much._   
_to ask You to explain_   
_is to deny You._   
_before the word_   
_You were._   
_You kiss my brother mouth._   
_the rest is silence._

_~Brothers, by Lucille Clifton_

 

The blow takes him through the torso, bright, sharp splintering of everything--bone and boy and world. 

His eyes are a darkening portal to the world that he gazes through alone, nothing here but the sound of breath, the slow, faltering thump of a determined heart.

Spine arching, thin tether collapsing and it all comes undone. Broken body falling pliant against stone, ragged hole torn in his side, and everything is light, light as air. Shuddering, desperate gasp for air, lethargy stealing through him, and everything feels thin as spun glass, fragile and precious.

Staggering footsteps falling to rest at his side, shudder of weight against stone, clicking into place like the final tumbler on a lock.

“Sammy.” Hot caress of breath mouthed against his forehead like a dying wish, warm fingers finding his, closing in a tight lattice between. His brother’s lips pressed to his, and he exhales, fingers flexing as consciousness relents, spinning away into darkness.

The night is a tapestry of stars suspended high above, lights strung through the heavens like a million, precise glittering jewels. 

Dean is sitting up, silhouette cut at the edge with jagged, pale moonlight, catching like diamonds in the points of his hair, the ring on his finger… the charm around his neck. Fingers drawn, leading Sam from the ground to touch, resting against the rounded bit of gold, the curve of his brother’s neck safe and warm, pulse beating sweet rhythm against Sam’s lips. He can feel his own heart, clutch and release of mindless muscle beneath the cage of his ribs, blood pounding through his veins, other hand straying to… touch. 

The skin runs silky smooth beneath his fingertips, knitted and clean across his abdomen, as perfect as the day he’d been born. 

He can imagine God’s mercy; the bend of Michael’s neck, chaste kiss dropped upon his forehead, time running backward, world put right. Can imagine, too, heaven as the open space all around them, two of them alone and held close together as this.

He parts his lips to ask and closes them again. 

Dean inclines his head, jaw turning slowly, and Sam rises to meet him. 

In the silence of their kiss is the only answer that matters.


End file.
